


Manmic Crisis: An Overwatch / Team Fortress 2 Story

by Rodyn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), Team Fortress 2
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Dark Comedy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rodyn/pseuds/Rodyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What turned to be a quiet little weekend for Tavish DeGroot, the RED Demoman, came to be a journey to a bizarre alternate future where Heroes are abundant.  With his drunken incompetence, can he help a ragtag team bring peace to the future whilst struggling to get back to the past?  Probably not, I mean.  He's a...he's a drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tavish DeGroot is a bad listener.

**Author's Note:**

> The names used for the RED Team follow the TF2 Comic continuity. So the Demoman, Engineer, Soldier, Heavy, and Sniper all have names or aliases to go by. Cool, huh.

 The monotony of fighting in the Badlands was bound to set in sooner or later.  For the past nine years, a team that consisted of nine of the strangest individuals sought off to fight against another set of nine strange individuals on behalf on a shady overseer (who was quite obviously using the both teams for her own universal motive.  Nine years of intelligence theft, Australium deliveries, Payload detonations and sometimes even the occasional Christmas party.  Eventually with the stench of war and fresh-printed hats around constantly, something would have to give.  
 Thankfully, with enough grievances from the combined opinions of the sensible members of RED Team (Mikhail, Dell, Mr. Mundy, Spy, and Tavish -- the rest were NOT stable enough to ask for toothbrushes.) their dispatcher Ms. Pauling finally agreed to the team having at least the weekends off to return to their usual, non-mercenary involved lives.  One whole weekend to take the teleporters Dell had set up back to their homes and ...do whatever it is RED Mercenaries do outside of the badlands.

  
Do remember: They Are Criminals.  
   
 With his 'Ma now in the know of how his scheduling works, RED Scout for every weekend had been back home with his family. Finally, with the surplus of funds he accumulated for nine or so years he had been able to give his mother the life she's always wanted to live.  Meaning she herself had been spending, spending, spending.  Long nights out, seeing the world and sometimes never even calling back.  Not with Scout, of course.  So usually he sat in his home, alone, catching up with the nine or so years of Baseball that he's missed.

  
 Our Soldier, Jane Doe, had remained in the Badlands tasked with the tireless job of managing stock for the month.  Excessive counting of boxes, excessive sorting of rations and Mann Co. crates, pre-loading all of the assorted weapons that the team uses and much much more.  All in the same weekend, with little rest for the Soldier.  Some people would call this inhumane, but our RED Soldier's humanity may as well have to take the backburner to serving his god-dammed country. 

  
 No one knows where the RED Pyro goes, and that's for the better.

  
 Dell Conhager, the RED Engineer,  rarely goes home, even with the new rules in place.  Instead, Dell sometimes either stays with Jane Doe to manage his own equipment -- mainly the teleporters he had erected for the rest of the gang to get home in the first place.  Other times, he was managing TOP SECRET assistance work with Ms. Pauling (playing Cards and or buying provisions for the team when the appropriate seasons came in.) or even other, HIGHLY TOP SECRET work for the ever illusive Administrator. 

  
 The RED Heavy Weapons Guy and actually a pretty level headed individual, Mikhail,  returned home to his family on the weekends, tending to his family's needs in the Siberian Wilderness. Simple enough for someone like him.

  
 The RED Spy preferred staying at the Viaduct in the Badlands also, unless there was need for another job back in his country.  There he remained in the gallery to enjoy his wine and even occasionally play a small game of Poker with Dell and Ms. Pauling.  (to which he always won.  By cheating, of course.)  The time away from the morons gave him more than enough reason to stay back here.

  
 Come to think of it, that was the case as well for the RED Medic as well.  More provisional and preparation work for the Medic.  These times of rest, he could actually get orders in for /human/ blood and organs.  No more vile transfusion of desert wildlife blood to put in the team, no sir.

  
 Lastly with Mr. Mundy, we see him return to the Outback in his home.  More game there to practice his shot instead of wasting time back in the Badlands.  The RED Sniper always kept a close arm to his home back in Australia, and made sure that his folks above would always have a decent enough resting place .  If he even believed in that spooky shit in the first place.   
   
Ah, then there is Tavish DeGroot to round up last.  Our RED  Demoman, and the star of this story.

  
\--  
_As our despairing heroine stared  wide-eyed at the sight of the gaping chasm that led to Nostromo's nether-rift, her nerves had finally caught up to her.  Wee hands buckling against the grip of her shotgun and the flush of fatigue finally catching up to her once-pristine face.  No pain, no gain she figured and with one final look to the now corrupt sky, she delved down into the Nether-Rift with her weapon aimed forward!  The beasts under bared their claws, and if they weren't met with buckshot why they were caught face first with the heroine's cleated boot--_

  
"Is this what you do all weekend?"  Came a voice from behind the typing man.  Snarky and aged, as if it had an excuse to be upset with the man in front of him.  "You get halfway drunk, sit on the fucking couch and write 'Nether-Wench' fanfiction?"

  
"OI!" The man in front of him spoke in protest.  His natural scottish drawl accenting whenever he spoke, not to mention the obvious drunken slur. "'s fer FUN, ya bloody but'ta knife!"

  
"FUN!?"  The first 'person' spoke again.  "I'm fucking surprised you even know what fun means, let alone you attempting to write something is considered as such.  Look: I'm gettin' you outta your mom's shithole of a baseme--"

  
"DON' YAE SAY ANUTHA WORD OF ME MUM, EYELANDER." The Scottish male retorted.  The Eyelander gave a snort in response -- odd, considering that a talking Claymore shouldn't be able to give any sort of nasal passage sounds in the first place.

  
"You know she's asleep watching Columbo, now come on!  You're young!"

  
"'m nearly 40--" our Scottish individual was interrupted by a slap to the head by Eyelander's blunt side.

  
"Shut up. Tavish, You're  YOUNG.  You have MONEY.  Go out and woo a girl with your ah...your..."  At a loss for words, The Eyelander tapped the tip of it's blade against the basement floor to ponder what it is that made Tavish DeGroot...well, Tavish DeGroot.

  
 Tavish, meanwhile, ignored the sword this time to neatly take the paper from his typewriter and neatly folded it into one of his pants pouches.  He felt pretty confident about his work so far and despite him never intending to show it to anyone significant in the future, the simple satisfaction of finding a hobby that WASN'T crafting high quality exposives or acquiring blades of the orient was more than enough.  While the rest of the Demoman's RED teammates became desensitized to the endless cavalcade of nonsensical violence, Tavish was more than concerned about what he was doing with himself to the past nine years.  Sure, the money is GREAT and the friends were fine enough.  Friends being Mikhail and Scout -- the latter of which he befriended out of pity than mutual understandings -- were a pair hard to find as a mercenary.  
 Nine years.  Nine whoooole years.  The longest contract work that Tavish had ever done, and as long as Mann. Co kept sending provisions and Pauling still gave missions, it looked as if Tavish was suckered into a full-time career like a complete sucker.  Hell, it's as if they were all suckers that fell under a shitty contract.  Still, Tavish couldn't complain.  He has his health.  (A new liver put in just yesterday!)  He's got money. (Most goes to paying for his mum's rent.)  He has friends. That should be more than enough for a wanted man.

  
 "Eh....dunnae about alluvat, Eyelander."  Tavish spoke, scratching the flakes of paper away from his beard.  "s'not a big deal really."

  
 "Ugh.  You're BORING."  The sword was upset, at least as upset as a haunted sword could be.  "What a waste of a weekend."  Tavish picked the blade up and forced it back into the scabbard, effectively muting it from speaking anymore.   With a finger poitned to the sword, Tavish scolded: "Keep tha' up and yae go in th' inventory, Eyelander.  I brought yae out fer a good time m'self.  We watched TV!  Played Catan!  What mor' could yae want anywae?"

  
 Obviously, he couldn't get a proper response as The Eyelander was locked shut in it's scabbard.  Smirking, the Demoman slid the blade to his side and began a walk to the back of the basement room, where Dell's Teleporter to the Viaduct remained.  Tavish had Scrumpy on the mind, and the bottles Mann. Co provided were more than enough for the Demoman to be satisfied with.  Just a quick stop to the company fridge and return home to get back to writin--

  
 Damn.  Tavish remembered: the teleporter itself has been having issues. Dell had explained to the team before they left, but...Tavish was drunk so the majority of Dell's words came off slurred and unorthodox.  Something about probabilities?  Or missing limbs?  Well, it shouldn't have been much to worry about right?  The issue regarding the tumors and teleporting bread had long been fixed.  Dell can fix anything! 

  
 "Pfft, anythin' 'cept his bald head aye."  Tavish said aloud, making his trek to step on the teleporter.  As he began to glow the typical flourescent red, which clearly overshadowed the odd crackles of blue coming from the bottom of the teleporter, he yelled out before disappearing.  "MA! I'LL BE BACK INNABIT, NOW."

  
 Then, suddenly, he was gone.  
\---  
 It had took extreme patience and high creativity for Hard-Light Architects to even get a handle of the skill at a beginner's understanding.  What normally took years, even decades of intensive studying and countless trial-and error operations for some of the highest in the field, it took 28 year old Satya Vaswani merely months to conquer the technique in the academy, even at an intermmediate stage.  To say the woman was gifted was an understatement, as Satya was quite obviously one of the brightest minds in the world.

  
 So, here she was doing contractual work for an Ape in a space-suit, and a German doctor.  Satya's prestige was far above doing simple installation work but considering the clients who asked for the work -- former Overwatch operatives -- her curious mind wandered at the idea that's been eating intellectuals for sometime now. 

  
It's been five, up to six or so years since Overwatch -- the international peacekeeping force -- had been disbanded and still today questions had rose as to why.  With scandalous rumors of ulterior motives with the executives at risk, it was best to put the possibility of risking even more lives than the ones lost in the Onmic Crisis away with the disbanding.  The masses were shocked, of course as these people were installed in the minds of young and old as the 'protectors'.  The 'heroes!'  Surely, the heroes can't go away because a CEO requested it, right?

  
 Satya had lived in that atmosphere since she graduated.  You could get away with a lot with just the right amount of prestige, and a whole lot of money. 

  
 So there she was - with an Ape, and a Doctor.  Not just any ape and doctor, of course -- this particular ape and doctor were some of the highest regarded scientists in the world: Dr. Winston and Dr. Angela Ziegler.  The former being an advocate for the potential of humanity and the latter being a brilliant medical physicist was more than enough for Satya to get something out of the two -- be it questions of their research, work habits or the biggest question of them all -- what the hell happened with Overwatch?  
\---  
"This....should do it, yes.  Your teleporters in and out of your respective Watchpoints should be all set to go.  Do mind the recharge rates on these machines, and the bi-annually replacement scheduling."  Satya chimed, dismissing her light-tuner for now.  "Otherwise?  I am satisfied to be of service to you two, of all people!"

  
 Winston didn't speak up for now, as his mind wandered on something else outside of the conversation.  Taking note, Satya's face sightly faltered but was soon picked back up by Angela returning her thanks.  "Danke.  I'm perplexed that Vishkar sent their top architect to settle something so trivial."

  
 Satya's smile had gone sly, raising a finger at Angela noting the curious situation.  "Well, I offered some of my own personal time to do it.  Now I expect no compensation as Vishkar does well in paying me, but..if I could perhaps get a few questions--"

  
 Winston picked up on the 'questions' thing, and interrupted his colleague by blurting out. "Sorry, we don't know anything about the Peanut Butter jars scattered around here.  Obviously NOT mine, alright."  His eyes drifted to a perplexed Angela, who soon caught the message of what he was trying to come across.  She then rolled her eyes before continuing to speak with her colleague.  
 "Winston, you aren't fooling me.  Unless you can convince me that our speedy friend has developed an addiction as well."

  
 "...She's pretty uh, reactionary you know."  Winston retorted, which got the faint cry of a young British woman from 'very' afar screaming in retort.  That actually managed to loosen up the tension in the room, getting chuckles out of Satya.  
"Actually no, that is not it."  She said whilst trying to regain her composure. "I merely have questions regarding ...Overwatch.  With you two together as the senior members, does this mean that we could be seeing a resurgence?"  
 Angela and Winston looked to one another.  While the Ape had a confident smile to suggest so, Angela's worried grin said otherwise.  Simultaneously, they only rose a finger to their mouths in response.  
 "Keep it...quiet, for now Ms. Vaswani."  Angela suggested.  "We want to get settled in before we--"  
 Angela's voice was interrupted by the whir of the teleporter going off..  Satya turned around with her eyes slightly widened in curiosity, while Winston merely shrugged the anomaly off with his usual cheery demeanor. 

  
 "Must be Lena trying out the teleporters.  ...AND, eating Peanut Butter.  Wily one she is, yes."   
 "No...." Satya responded.  "That couldn't be, as they're still charging.  They aren't even at at least 50%--"  Satya immediately checked her light-tuner to see the numbers running for the teleporter, and curiously enough the blue color of the tuner soon began to distort and alter, even flashing to a bit of red now and then. "Malfunctioning, now?!"  
 Angela could hear the worry in Satya's voice, moving to rest a hand on her shoulder. "You can fix this, no?"  
 "I could, yes...but with the way the tuner is marked before distorting...it's like someone's coming through a different channel."  
 "Wait." Winston had moved up to the two women. "You mean, someone's using the teleporter /now?/  Who?  Couldn't be Talon, we were communicating through a private channe--"

  
 Winston's words were interrupted as the figure from the teleporter slowly began to emerge, the bizarre red light nearly overshadowing the trio's vision briefly.  With their sights back in check, the three looked over to see who it was actually coming through the teleporter.

  
To their disbelief...all they got was a bearded, black male with a sword and an eyepatch.

  
With /slippers./


	2. Ms. Pauling likes Sunday Dinners.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pauling, Dell and Spy have a nice dinner. Tavish gets mollywhopped. We briefly meet the butt lady.

In the Viaduct, Miss Pauling's sunday afternoons had always followed the same strict and meticulous schedule that the rest of her working days also followed.  She would wake up before the crack of dawn to take care of any hygenical duties, before heading into the lobby to take note of morning stock.  Within the second passing hour would be the time that Dell Conhager -- The RED Enginner -- would be up and active.  With the two taking note of being on the clock they would work together to manage some of the preparation duties for the rest of the week -- filling lockers, pantries, refridgerators and making note of the rest of last week's enemy carcasses being completely decomposed using Mann Co.'s very own 'INSTA-DUST' chemical designed for war countries to deal away quickly with cadavers.  With all of the preparation time done the two should actually be finished before the last hour of breakfast occured.

  
That was when the Spy got up.  Spy cooked breakfast for the duo exclusively seeing as: he didn't like to be seen as uncontributive and to be frank, the Engineer and the lovely dispatcher were the only two he had a very high tolerance for.  It's important to note that there is this...comical sense of whimsy that the Viaduct always had so it was unsurprising to see our Spy preparing food in his own sense of flair -- with a large beret and a 'Kiss Ze Cook' apron around his pinstripe suit. 

  
As Pauling and Dell arrived back to the mess hall of the Viaduct they were greeted by a Spy who had already finished preparing their breakfast. Dell was a Flapjack kind of guy while Pauling really only settled for Cinnnamon Oatmeal. Spy, as extravagant as ever off the clock, worked himself a full meal of varying sizes -- enough to fit inside of his fake teeth for later. 

  
Pauling shook Spy's hands before sitting down to tend to her food. "I can only assume you had a satisfactory weekend, right Spy?"  The Spy maintained his courtesy, catching Pauling's chair to pull out while he sat before continuing.  "I suppose so.  I have finally finished my latest Glukhovsky novel as well as taking the time to properly clean my collection of blades.  You can only savor the thrill of silence for so long here, my dear."  
"You know you didn't have to clean those right?" She mused while stirring up her bowl of oats. "That's part of my job -- like it or not, it's something I have to manag--"  
"Oh nononono." The Spy interrupted her.  "My property, my responsibility.  Let me not remind you that I am still...against the idea of you washing our clothes also."

  
That was when Dell chimed in, the short gloved man beforehand had finished off his fist set of pancakes.  "Got ya nicked there, m'am.  Naw, naw -- I should say 'Ma' with the way you care for your boys."  
Pauling rose a brow both in response to Dell's heckling, and the taste of the spoonful of Oatmeal she had just filled her face with.  "Right.  Like /you/ wouldn't be the one whining to The Administrator about having to 'air-dry' your own overalls, Dell."  
"I've been doin' it for 30 or so years now!  Cept now I don't get whacked by my own folks for hoggin' the dry-lines." Dell ended his retort with a syrupy grin.  Spy had rolled his eyes, gesturing to the Engineer to wipe his face.  ...To which he did, with his shirt.   
"What a shame, gourmet condiments wasted on an uncultured hi--"  Spy was actually interrupted this time.  Not by Dell, but by the belching dispatcher sitting next to him.  Both the Spy and Enginner giving Pauling a surprised look.

  
"...What?  The boys aren't here, let me live a little."  
Pauling had her feet up to the table as she ate.  
"Indeed."  Spy responded.  "They aren't here.  Should be back here today... Oh.  That reminds me;  are the teleporters 100% operable, Engineer?"  After Dell had finished off his first glass of Orange Juice he could finally give the Spy an answer.

  
"Yessir.  A-OK to teleport-on.  Should the fellas heed my warnin, they should've not used 'em yesterday."   
"That's something admirable.  Putting faith in a group of imbeciles."  Spy spoke, already feeling the migrane of dealing with more than five people at a time.  But perhaps Spy was being a bit to pessimistic about the team: Surely, they'd listen to Dell right?  
....Right?

  
\---

  
Tavish DeGroot emerged out of the teleporter exit. 

  
Well, it wasn't the Engineer's teleporter.  It was someone else's.  Somehow, someway, the Demoman managed to NOT listen to Dell's warning and now Tavish is...in a pickle.  From where he stood, he saw something that he in his years of living he'd thought would never be seen.  No, it wasn't the monkey in the space-suit nor was it the woman with the wings on her back -- he's seen those at least five or so times already.   
It was the TELEVISION.  It was floating in mid-air!  Sure the Badlands have always had it's fair share of oddities but NEVER had he seen the perfect, floating television. 

  
"EYELANDER!"  Tavish grinned, recklessly unsheating the sword in front of the staring group of people. (Which isn't much of a good idea.) "Looka' that!  It's a--"  
"DeGroot," The Eyelander spoke as if it woke up in a daze.  It had been sleeping for the majority of the time it was sheathed and the sudden blast of multicolored lights was not good for the sword at all.  "...Where are we?  Back in the Viaduct?"  
"Oh aye, jus' seems to be the base in space yea--" DeGroot's discussion with the sword was interrupted swiftly by the angry monkey in the spacesuit, slamming it's large fist against the Demoman's face to effectivey knock him out of submission.  The Eyelander, once gripped hard in DeGroot's hands now clanked loudly to the ground.

  
"WOAH.  WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!  WHO PISSED /YOU/ OFF, MONKE--" Being interrupted in it's speech by the very 'height-y' Indian woman picking the blade up, she spoke to the people she was standing next to.  
"I...don't know exactly how to explain this is, but...this is a talking sword.  An old one at that.  Winston?  Do you think your...enemies were collector--  
"WOAH-HO.  LADY."  Eyelander's usual green glow shined brightly into the woman's visor. "DON'T INTERRUPT M--WHAT'D YOU DO TO MY BOY DEGROOT?!"  
"Is that his name?" The other woman -- probably German the sword surmised -- spoke.  "DeGroot...that's Scottish.  If my records are correct the Scottish are currently assisting Russia in the Second Crisis...were that the case, they shouldn't be aligned with anything 'evil--"

  
The Eyelander managed to leap out of the Indian's hands and pointed it's sharpened edge towards the German woman's face. "Second /WHAT?!/  You, Kraut, I don't know what kind of act you three are putting on but I need an explanation as to WHY my pal here got the work from Bobo over there?!"  
Now the monkey was upset.  "Bobo?!  I'm an Ape, you glorified butter knife."  
Now The Eyelander was upset. "BUTTER KNIFE?  WELL THIS KNIFE'S NOT JUST FOR SPREADING CREAM ON TOA--"  Unfortunately, the sword was silenced by the Indian woman sheathing it yet again.

  
"Angela, Winston: it would be best to get this man into somewhere incarcerated to talk to.  You can only hope he isn't as aggressive as the...talking sword."  
The other two -- Angela and Winston -- sighed with the yelling blade being silenced.  Angela looked over to the knocked out Scot with a mixture of both curiosity and worry for the man's well-being.  Winston definitely did a number on the poor man.  The Ape caught Angela staring, patting her shoulder with one of his paws before continuing to speak: "Oh, he'll be fine.  It was a bump!  ...Well, he shouldn't be dead at least."  
Angela was going to speak up again before she was interrupted by a blinking light zooming past her.  Her worried face turned shortly to a smile as she saw a familliar face -- a scruffy haired, lanky looking woman with goggles looming over the downed DeGroot.

  
"Oi, whose the Scot?  He came with th' contractor, aye?"  She questioned Angela.  Angela walked over to DeGroot, helping the man to his feet and over the British-sounding woman's shoulder. "Just get him to the ER, dear.  Winston should be able to explain everything."

  
The British woman groaned.  This guy was heavy, and he smelled of Scrumpy!  ...Really old Scrumpy at that.  She pondered at the idea of which part of Scotland the guy was from -- probably Ullapool, judging by the smell -- before complying with Angela's request.  "Fine, but you two owe me!  Winston I want you off the jars for the day, an' Angie?  We're goin' out!  Deal?"

  
Angela couldn't help but chuckle at the British woman's charisma, meanwhile Winston is groaning at the idea of no peanut butter for the day.  Angela gave the woman a thumbs up of approval. "Fine, Lena.  Now go on; you've a job to do now!"  With that, Lena took DeGroot over the shoulder and speeded out of the lobby.  Meanwhile, the Indian woman Satya still had The Eyelander in her hands, constantly eyeing over what exactly made the blade 'work.'  No signs of any technology influencing the blade.  No AI chip, no solar paneling for the lighting, no voice emitter -- in appearance, it looked as if the sword was just that: a regular old Claymore.

  
But Satya was smart.  One of the smartest in her Country and surely she wasn't going to be stumped by some Claymore.  Resting the blade strap across her back, Satya returned over to Winston and Angela again.  "If I could make a request from you two?  When your...'friend' emerges from his sleep, I would like to speak to him regarding this blade.  Unfortunately, I have obligations back home that need to be settled.  Could you come to India within the month, if possible?"  
"I'm sorry."  Winston began, "but considering our standings it isn't exactly the right idea to leave here for the time being.  We even have questions for the DeGroot fellow so even if he were to wake up, going to India just does not seem feasible for all of u--"

  
"You know it doesn't have to be 'all' of us."  Angela noted.  "Lena could take Mr. DeGroot to you.  She's as good as a tour guide as she is as a jailer, you know."  Winston wasn't exactly for the idea of his only field operative for Overwatch's reconstructure out on a favor for Satya, but knowing how persusasive Angela can be it would be...  
"If...she's up for it, I don't see the harm." Winston conceded, swearing that he could see the smug gleam emerge from Angela's eyes.  Satya could tell that these two were quite the pair.

  
"Then it's decided.  I will take this Claymore with me back home for more research.  Just make sure to...not harm DeGroot too much?  Even I have things to ask."

  
With all of these plans made for the Demoman while he was knocked out cold, whose to say what the Demoman wanted out of all of this?  
Well, we shouldn't care because the Demoman isn't a very good decision maker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things happened.


	3. Jesse McCree doesn't pay rent.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tavish wakes up from getting bopped. There's pointless past exposition regarding Tavish that is fucking irrelevant. He is a bad person. Satya takes Eyelander to India and locks it up for more testing. McCree is here now, must be high noon or something.

Mercenaries had nightmares. Tavish’s nightmares came and went but when they came, the nightmares themselves were sure to leave a lasting mark on the Scot. The Demoman’s mind, whenever it wasn’t diluted by the cloudy murk of alcoholic influence reflected that of a genius whose curiosity was only being restricted by the physical threshold of pain. Tavish was always the creative type as he spent days upon days in the Viaduct conducting new explosives to be used against whatever the Administrator wanted to be taken out. On good days Tavish would croak out high explosive weapons like the Loch-N-Load – the on-contact explosion, short ranged Grenade Launcher that DeGroot used specifically to deal directly with the enemy rather than destroying buildings. On bad days, he would get creations like the Loose Cannon – an oft-backfiring device that he swore never to use after it nearly blew out it’s other eye.

(Also it ruined Ms. Pauling’s Birthday Cake last year.)

Yet beneath the layer of the creative mind lied a bare, pink segment of the brain that Tavish had long since repressed from his mind. Days of roaming the highlands as a youth, chasing girls and getting into brawls in the tavern into his adulthood. The stories he told to his mother and father when he was kicked out of the Scottish Rebellion.

The first day he ‘met’ the Eyelander.

The day he lost his eye. That memory was the most vivid one of them all. The sudden jerk, the burst of pain that never went away, the excruciating migraines that came from the lack of depth perception. Tavish always felt that without his eye, he would always be half-of a man. With a lack of backbone. Without hope.

Then it all caved into one swirling pool of self-doubt and anxiety – things Tavish had kept hidden well from Pauling’s sorry attempts of ‘counseling.’

Still, nightmares come and go. It would follow the same pattern. Tavish would wake up, tears swollen into his eye-pockets before one of the boys in the Viaduct would punch him to sleep. Then it was back to the repression. Back to the killing. Back to the scrumpy. The simple things in life that made Tavish feel complete. Feeling ‘complete’ is all that he could really get at this point.

…The punches never came. Instead Tavish stirred awake, feeling the rub of a finger caressing his cheek.

\--

Winston’s punch to Tavish’s face had him co for a whole day. An entire 24 hours gone, and the day shifted into Monday. The trio of Winston, Angela and Lena all alternated shifts in-between their usual schedules outside and in of the Watchpoint, to check on Tavish’s general condition. …well, sort of. Angela was the only one who genuinely kept tabs. Lena usually stayed for ten minutes and figured “Ah, he’s jus’ nappin.” Scampering off to deal with something else outside of the Watchpoint. Winston and the feeling of guilt that washed over him couldn’t stand to be in the same room of a potentially innocent man that he had assaulted for no reason. A genuine soft-serve, that Winston is.

Angela stayed. She had to stay. She was a doctor, and doctors had to serve; no matter what the patient may be. In her shifts, she kept her eye on Tavish’s sleep patterns. He snored a lot. There was the occasional lip smack. This man was sleeping like a baby – potentially the best night of sleep he’s had in years, maybe. It wasn’t until she noticed the tears when his sleep started to shake up. Worried, Angela wrapped a small towlette across her finger to flick away the tears from the man’s face. In a turn shocking no one, that point of contact would be the catalyst in waking up the Scottish slob.

“Oi wuzza--…’mum? N-Not, dead aye?” The Demoman mumbled out of his sleepy haze. Angela frowned – praying internally that he wouldn’t pick up on Lena’s tendencies of calling her ‘mum.’

“Nein. You are in the hospital, thankfully. You definitely took a…wallop?” She was puzzled to decide on the right word. Luckily Tavish didn’t exactly react to it.

The Demoman pursed his lips, keeping his eyes glued to the ceiling instead of looking the doctor in the eye. “This ain’t th’medic’s office. Too clean. Not enuff gunk. …’m not in the Viaduct no more.”

“V…Viaduct? No, no. I’m sorry, but this is our Watchpoint. You’re in a former Overwatch facility.” She commented on Tavish’s remark. Angela had never heard of the ‘Viaduct.’ And who was this ‘medic’ that he spoke of? Important things to note and ask, but it wasn’t the time. He needed to heal. To feel secure, BEFORE interrogation.

“Ovawot.” He said, turning his head to finally get a good look at this medic at his bedsid—

“BLOODY HELL TH’WINGS. YO—OH NO. I /AM/ DEAD. I’M DEAD MUM IM DEAD!” The moment he started to panic, the heart rate alarms began to accelerate and send off warning signals to the rest of the watchpoint. Unsurprisingly, a wisp of blue light dashed into the room looking exasperated the moment she saw Tavish and Angela.

“I WAS WATCHIN HIM, YEAH, I-I JUST HAD TO USE TH’ LOO I SWEAR.” Lena stammered, holding her hands out to shield herself from Angela’s stern glare.

“H-Huh?! Tavish, yes? You are /not/ dead. My wings a—my wings are for my work!” She waved her hands in front of him while her wings retracted out. “And /you/, Lena, you should be managing your shifts like an adult! Don’t you lie to me.”

Lena basically had shrunk at that point, the judgmental glare from her partner and borderline maternal figure pierced into her soul.

Tavish, meanwhile just kept staring at Angela’s wings. Then to the weird chest-piece that laid on Lena’s body. (Robo-breasts? Was he in some gnarly future where the robots mate with the humans?) “Not dead. /Not/ dead. Jus…just not home. Yeah. I got it.” Finally, Tavish sat himself up to rest his back along the headboard of the medical bed. Taking a feel of his face, he noticed that the gruff beard he had before he was knocked out was clean-trimmed. Outrageous! No barber in Scotland could get a line-up as fine as this one. Not even the Spy could manage such a feat.

Lena took noticed of Tavish’s surprised expression, and finally her beaming grin returned to display. “Feelin’ tip-top? Tavish, aye? We found yer wallet an’ Mercenary Tags. Tavish DeGroot, born 19XX? Hell, you’re a bloody cavema--!”

Then Tavish’s expression changed to a frown. ‘Ruddy brits.’ He cursed inside of his head.

Wait, what did she call him? A ‘caveman?’

Angela placed a hand onto Lena’s head, trying to be subtle in letting her know that her chattering is going on for too long. “Mr. DeGroot, while you can’t exactly leave your bed at the moment is there something you’d like to have while we wait on Winston to arrive?” While Tavish appreciated the hospitality, the cycling questions in his head couldn’t help but occupy him. Where the hell was he? This wasn’t his time at all, of course but the specific mention of his birthday was what irked him? Was…was he really in the future? Is this ‘his’ future? What about his comrades, stuck in the Viaduct? By Saxton’s pectorals, Ms. Pauling is probably having a panic attack right now. Tavish and Eyelander going AWOL, after all of these yea—

Wait.

“Ahh…. Angela? You seen my sword?”

 

* * *

 

 

Satya didn’t really understand what she was doing with herself this week.   One moment, she’s aiding a potential crime with assisting former Overwatch operatives restart their operation. The next, she stumbles upon a teleporter-jacking Scotsman with some bizarre, advanced sword. Afterwards, she ended up sharing a plane with an incredibly talkative, perverse sword. Finally, she’s in front of what looks like a safe – with the sword sheathed (thank god) and communicating with a mercenary from the United States.

That mercenary didn’t /really/ want to be there.

\--

“I don’t really wanna be here.” The cowboy-hatted man mentioned to Satya before taking a drag of his cigarette. “Don’t get me wrong, miss lady, yer money’s alright. It’ll keep the rent up for the month and then some—“

“You don’t pay rent.” Satya interjected. “Jesse McCree, you speak so lowly of your previous heritage. You could be amongst the same ranks as some of your colleagues and yet you choose simple hobby work.” She had her vision mostly focused on her compact device to get a brief look on her information being correct. McCree. Overwatch – Blackwatch, to be specific. Most of the details are classified but anyone with common sense would know McCree handled the off the books jobs. Today with Overwatch being dissolved, McCree did simple vigilante and mercenary work. Yes, the world still needed heroes; but it wasn’t full time.

“…Well, you got me.” Jesse raised his hands in defeat. “I don’t pay rent. I pay other things, though. You know how hard it is to get an antiquated firearm in this day and age?”

“Mister McCree, I’m sad to say that my work doesn’t—“

“Don’t answer that, m’am.” He interjected this time. “Rhetorical question.”

Satya had rolled her eyes away from McCree. “So why did you come? Hopefully it wasn’t to be a tourist?” That question made Jesse pause in thought. Yes, Jesse had a bit of his own mission. There were rumors regarding the morals of Vishkar Inudstries being…less than satisfactory. He knew Symmetra off hand, but the work she did was good enough to know that she was indeed a good egg. It’s the people that hired her that weirded him out.

But, he had to lie to keep his cover under wraps.

“…Never been to India before. Needed an excuse. See the sights. Not to mention, help clean up a bit of the nasty blots on this place. Fair enough, yeah?”

Satya wanted to prod him further. Unlock the secrets he was so blatantly hiding from her. Unfortunately, she had other things to attend to. Besides – he was in /her/ domain. The same space that she could erase and craft with the blink of an eye. A simple cowboy wouldn’t be enough to deter her plans.

…Not that she had any I mean.   Regardless, Satya looked over to McCree with a smile. “Fair enough, Mister McCree. I’ll see to it that your stay here is satisfactory. Just do your job.”

“Always do, m’am.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize for the delay. Finals devoured my fucking soul. But hey, I guess I can make more chapters if you people like this I guess.


	4. Lena Oxton gets punched in the mouth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena gets fucking punched in the mouth. That's all I got.

            Gibraltar was rooted deep with industrial tunneling that stretched both inside and outside of the watchpoint island. From briefing rooms and laboratories to firing ranges and gymnasiums, Gibraltar was designed as one of the many central hubs in the world that all, international Overwatch agents could communicate and travel through freely. It was Torbjorn’s design at heart that the rest of the Watchpoints attempted to emulate. But here, in Gibraltar, this was the first. The many steps taken to foresee a brighter and inclusive future.

Tavish DeGroot saw it as an endless, hellish future maze that he saw no escape from. Without a rhyme or reason – or his clothes for that matter – the Demoman sprinted his way down the halls, the flimsy medical gown flapping carefree in the wind that he was beginning to stir. He was delirious and unwilling to work with the doctor that took her own personal time to make sure he was healed. Sure, he had a distaste for doctors that started when he first met the RED Medic, but this time it was a different reason that he chose to free briskly from Dr. Ziegler. The Eyelander – Tavish’s treasured family Claymore and the closest semblance of what he would considered a ‘bloody right mate’ – was ‘traded’ beneath his knowledge. The nerve of these people, selling off such a dangerous and mystical artifact without the slightest consideration of the Demoman’s feelings! Though that would imply that the Demoman would even be willing to work with some people that he barely knew of in the first place—

So…why /was/ Tavish running away from Angela? It was the defiance mostly. He deliberately wanted to show that he was uncooperative and aloof to force some sort of hand by the opposing team. It seemed that the Demoman viewed Angela along with the bloody monkey and brit as an enemy. He needed them to ‘act’. No matter what that act was, it was leveraging Tavish in a more even battlefield between him and the other three. After all, he couldn’t fight if he didn’t know what the hell what they were capable of.

From this chase he gathered that Angela was capable of flight, clearly by the automated wings that were implanted (?) into her back. She was nimble, and never-relenting in her chase and that alone gave Tavish a bit of a discouragement. Without his explosives (all he really had on his body was the one-off sticky bomb he always kept in his pyjama robe pocket and a Ullapool Caber) Tavish’s own means of quick movement were heavily limited. He had to get /something./

Fortunately he could breathe safely knowing that his enemy wasn’t really taking his strategy seriously.   The fools.

\--

Tracer was in another room altogether. To be specific, she was about three rooms ahead of the direction that the Demoman was running towards as a part of Mercy’s plan. A makeshift plan sure, but for an idiot like the Demoman it couldn’t have possibly failed.

_Roughly One Hour Ago:_

_“That old thing?” Tracer yabbed on despite the stern look Angela was giving her. “We traded it off to the ol’ Vishkar tart in exchange for another row of sentries in the foyer! Queer thing that blade is mate, how’dya make it talk anyway?” The obliviousness in Lena’s tone was enough to drive Tavish up the wall._

_Less up the wall, more up the ceiling at this point._

_“Y’…y’sold m’sword? MY SWORD? MY BLOODY BLADE?!” Tavish roared, the tickers monitoring his heart rate and blood pressure beginning to skyrocket – nevermind the odd flash of red that came out of his blood in the first place. Angela was taken aback, though not unexpectedly. He was obviously upset._

_“Allow me to explain, ja?” She protested. “We at Overwatch believed that you were…well, an intruder. Which, you are yes, so we felt—“_

_Lena interrupted again. “Why let the bad guy keep his weapon, yeah? No weapon, harmless little fly! Easy peasy don’cha thin—“ As Lena had her eyes closed, she didn’t really see Tavish rising up and out of his bed to stretch his fist across the speedster’s face. The blow sent her stumbling into the wall, thankfully her hands touching the wall before the contact stopped her Chronal Accelerator from getting any damage._

_“Mr. DeGroot, this is uncalled for!” Angela pleaded with the angry man. “We made – we made a mistake, sure but harming others isn’t going to get your sword back any quick—“_

_“YOU DON’ GET THE BLOODY PRIVILEGE, MATE.” Tavish bellowed as he scolded Mercy. “I’M GETTIN’ MY STUFF, AN’ I’M LEAVIN’ TO GET MY BLA—“ his voice cut short by a blast from a pistol. Tracer’s pistol, held firmly into her hands and aimed directly at the Demoman. Despite the little trickle of blood dripping from her nose, she still managed to keep the cocky smile that drove the Scot up the wall._

_This wasn’t good. He was cornered. She had a gun and who knows what kind of wackjob Robo-Magic that the doctor had. Still he didn’t want to stick around long enough for her to try anything funny at all._

_That was when he made the distraction technique of flipping the hospital bed over, making Angela step back startled at the burst of rage from the Demoman. With her guard lowered briefly, Tracer shuffled the aim of her gun downwards long enough for the Demoman to trip her. This time she couldn’t defend herself from the fall and her Chronal Accelerator crashed against the floor._

_Tavish was long gone by then in starting his sprint, but Lena had her own issue to sort. She was phasing in and out of the slipstream. One second she appeared solid and the next she was nothing but a wispy silhouette._

_Angela cursed in German, getting herself together to see if she could retune the accelerator back to the way Winston showed her in these emergencies._

_“Do-- -orry abou- e!” Lena tried to say, hoping her words were getting through to Angela._

_“No, no. I got this. Just a small tune….there!” With a twist of the piston and a quick soldering of the split wire thanks to Angela’s pistol, the Accelerator was fixed and Lena was back to normal._

_“Whew! Nice save there, doc. Thought I was a goner there! Now, les’ bag that Scot and tie him to a post.” She chimed. Angela rose a hand to dismiss Lena. Though hre expression was that of relief that her friend was safe, there was still the obvious guilt that remained for what she did to Tavish._

_“No, no…we can’t scare this man. I feel – I feel that he’s just a mixup. Not someone from like Talon or anywhere worse. He’s frightened, and we took something that obviously meant a lot to him.”_

_Lena clicked her tongue, trying to contest. “I don’t see what the big deal is, love, it’s jus’ a sword. You can get ‘em in any antique store! He could just buy—“_

_Angela slapped her head, as she was in no mood for her tom foolery. “Nein. There…is meaning in some things. In belongings, like your jacket for example. Regardless, we can discuss this later. Preferably when he’s clothed.”_

_Lena was definitely hovering around the desires of beating the Demoman into a pulp sure, but she could never really argue with Angela’s reasoning. Whoever this guy was—and what he was about, it was only right that they find out more._

_“Well you got a plan then? I don’t think I can blink until the bloody gears start to kick in, so we’re gonna have to caveman it up yeah?”_

_Angela cupped her chin in thought. Winston wasn’t going to be back in Gibraltar until tomorrow as he had to pick up Genji. Athena still couldn’t get any sort of information on Tavish – it’s as if he was from a different reality altogether._

_I mean, sure she had a plan to capture Tavish. But that wasn’t really on the mind right now. It was what was going to be done /after/ they had settled the little manlet down._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I've uh, I've been playing Overwatch a lot and I've been procrastinating on this shit. But that don't mean I don't got stuff planned.
> 
> The next chapter will finish this act. It will be a chunky chapter, and introduce the Overwatch team in it's entirety. Which consists of (for now.):  
> Winston  
> Tracer  
> Angela  
> Genji  
> Torbjorn.
> 
> The next act will see this group along with our Demoman seek back the return of the Eyelander. From there, Symmetra's motives are revealed and the team will truly see if Vishkar are either friend...or foe?!?!
> 
> Then the RED team will probably try to get their boy back. 
> 
> Thank you for your continued interest in this.


	5. Genji Shimada, here comes daredevil.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tavish DeGroot blows up Watchpoint: Gibraltar, killing Angela Ziegler and leaving Lena Oxton into the slipstream for ever, shocking a returning Winston, Genji and Zenyatta.
> 
> But that was the first draft which was accidentally deleted. Here's the seventh draft.

Nepal.  Roaming hillys and peaked mountains were abundant, the countryside speckled through with drifts and troughs of snow.  The people there, be it the nomadic humans or the Omnic monks lived there all in relative peace between one another.  Above the farmlands and villages where everyday individuals lived their lives rested a vast network of temples and palaces, home to the mentioned Monks who operate to speak to the world about their fellow Omnic bretheren and their desires of peace in a conflict-riddled world.  The soldiers of Russia would all find them mad, and the junkers of Australia would mostly see them as more scrap for the pile.  Dr. Winston, however, saw these Omnics as an opportunity to set the world straight.

So that’s why he made the trip.  Yes, the arrival of the mysterious man from the teleporter had deterred Winston to arrive here but nonetheless he had a schedule he had to finish.  Roughly two weeks ago, the doctor saw himself getting engaged into discussions with the keeper of the temples in Nepal, Zenyatta.  Winston had felt that his plan to restore Overwatch to it’s glory was a worthy enough excuse to actually talk to the Yogi, though at the same time directly talking to them through communicators was not the best idea.  So he had Athena to personally fly him to Nepal far out of the preying eye of the enemy so that he and Zenyatta could discuss things.

With Zenyatta there was always the possibility of seeing him accompanied by his student, Genji Shimada.  Once a shinobi for Overwatch himself, his career was cut short after a tragic accident that led to his cybernetics being installed. After months of loathing his new form Genji sought out Nepal to find peace with himself and his new body.  Once a brash and hot-headed youth, he was now much more reserved than he was before the accident.

Those bursts of hot-blooded passion still came out, and once Winston had told Zenyatta of the mysterious man from Scotland these were one of the moments where that passion was most applicable.

“A time traveling /swordsman/?!  Let me understand where you are coming from.  A mysterious, eyepatched male with a claymore came through a teleporter?!” The tone seen in Genji’s voice was excited, unsurprising to the floating Omnic adjacent to him. “Master, you are hearing this yes?”

The Omnic kept his focus to Winston, who looked a bit concerned about the matter altogether.  This wasn’t the right time to have some anomaly step into their lives and he felt as if this anomaly was going to get worse the moment he left the Vishkar consultant, Symmetra, leave with the blade that the Scotsman came with.  That isn’t to say he wasn’t amused by Genji’s excitement.

“Yes.  I see no reason to not hear it.”  He responded in his typical, elevated voice.

“Then we should go, yes?  To see this swordsman…to have the opportunity to test my mettle in battle… that would be appropriate, no?” Genji asked.  Secretly he was hoping that Zenyatta would agree.

“Some words can only be spoken through battle.  I see no harm in it, young one.”

Winston pushed his glasses up, looking back to Genji with the same concern that Zenyatta noted.  “Are you sure, Genji?  Dr. Ziegler is there and…knowing the history you two share, well.”

While yes it was true that Genji’s feelings towards Angela were once of hatred for what she did to his body, Genji was taught that the change he went through was necessary to save his life.  He was grateful for her, regardless of what he was now.  The words he said to her back then were…less than appropriate. Would she have it in her heart to forgive his words?

“I…can handle it, Winston.”

\--

Mercy’s plan was simplistic enough.  Perhaps a bit too simplistic to be taken seriously.  The plan was a simple snare and capture objective using a series of ropes and an old cage that Gibraltar had to keep the hostile wildlife under protective custody—or, that’s what Gabriel Reyes insisted to Jack Morrison once upon a time.  Still, old equipment has it’s uses just as well as the newer tech. 

The second stage of the plan was to get Tavish to follow a predetermined path so that he could be snared.  This was Tracer’s job and surprisingly easy enough to pull off considering how much of a self-centered moron that the Demoman was.  She was in position as she was told, inside one of the storage closets where Winston’s snack collection was kept.  Three rooms down to where we last saw our titular hero.  She moved her finger to the ear communicator that Angela handed her, trying to get into contact with the doctor.

“Right-o, Ange.  In the spot where you told me.  Which reminds me – we NEED to confront Winston about his addiction thing.  There’s more peanut butter here to give a food bank a heartache or two!”

Even through this time of conflict (well it wasn’t really a conflict, Angela thought.) Tracer still managed to keep a bit of life into the scenario. 

“Ja.  Just keep your mind focused on our guest.  We’re going off a whim, here.  We need to make sure he takes the LEFT path.  That’s where you come in play.  Distract him.” 

Tracer huffed into the communicator.  “Give him the ol’ feminine charm?”

“What?  No, no.  We’re soldiers not those silly secret agents from your films.”  Angela was trying hard to conceal her laughter as to not give away her position.

“Aye aye.  Just give me the signal!”  With that Tracer had cut off the communication.  Left alone to the wonders of a cabinet filled with peanut butter and bananas. 

In the end she figured; if she was going to waste her time waiting on an idiot she figured to do it on a snack in her stomach.  Surely Winston wouldn’t mind if she helped herself to a helping of bananas.

\--

On the heli flight back home to Gibraltar, Winston was interrupted in his heated game of Starcraft when he realized something potentially drastic.

“…I didn’t lock the key to my storage cabinet.”

\--

            Tavish was still carefully wandering the hallways of the Watchpoint.  The eeriness of the environment coupled with the fact that he hadn’t heard a peep from the Swiss and her British pet was driving him up the wall.  Fortunately, he managed to find his clothes in the midst of his exploration.  A robe felt more comfortable to wander around in when compared to a medical bib. 

            Sadly, the stuff that he left in his pocket that he needed – his stickybomb for a rainy day AND his notebook – were confiscated.  So much for a plan C but at the very least the team were incompetent enough to keep his Caber in his pocket.  Either they didn’t know what a caber looked like in this day and age or it was likely that it was a gross foresight. 

            “I need…tools.”  He muttered.  “An' a drink.”  He couldn’t work in these conditions.  In the badlands that man was on his ass off the sauce for a good 70% of the day.  Being 100% sober in uncharted waters was making him panic.  Was this their plan?  To root out his fatal flaw that being sober meant he was completely incompetent in the field?  Dear god, this future of madness was too much to bear!

            So Tavish slammed his head to a door.  Over.  And Over.  And Over until he eventually broke the door down with his bull-headed frustration.  The crash of the door was enough to snap him out of his sober-inducing stupor.  That and the aroma of peanut butter and bananas got his stomach growling something fierce.  Nevermind the young British speedster – her face and hands covered in peanut butter-- in absolute shock at the man that just barged into her hiding spot.

\--

The sun was setting in Gibraltar.  The base’s lights for the night began to turn in, spotting cameras flickering on at full power to prepare for the arrival of the base’s Heli.  Back before Overwatch had disbanded, Reyes and his student Jesse McCree would be making the rounds with a nightly patrol. Torbjorn would retire himself to his workshop, crafting larger and deadlier defense tools.  Ana, and her young daughter Pharah would join the rest of the team not focused on work with dinner.   Jack, Angela, Lena, Gerard and his wife, Winston and Reinhardt – all together to eat, chat, and enjoy their lives without a worry for the world. 

Winston longed for those days.  The days where his family would come back home.  Now it seems as if with every move he makes he comes closer to bringing a new generation of Overwatch, young and old, organic and Omnic back to protect and love the world just as he did for his family long ago.

The landing of the Heli restored the nostalgic feel that he had always felt when he was a young agent.  There were plans to be settled, new Agents to enlist and returning operatives to bring back into the fold.  The world needed heroes.  Surely, the world needed Overwatch.

Genji was the first to escape the confines of the Heli, metal feet clanking against the Ashphalt.  Being back here was to be celebrated another time as Genji was on another mission himself; to find this ‘Time Traveling Warrior’ that Winston had explained before.  Who was he?  What was he like?  Did he uphold the same code of honor and chivalry that other knights and samurai did in the past?  Was his sense of honor different from Genji’s own?  What if he was a brutish, vile tyrant whose skill was only matched by his fear?  So many questions so little time, it seemed.  Genji’s excitement was leaking out of his body, signaled by the back of his feet.  If it weren’t for Zenyatta’s hand reaching up to hold down Genji’s shoulder the latter was sure to leap into the air.

“Patience.”  Was the only thing Zenyatta could say. 

“…Yes, Master.”  Was the only /right/ thing Genji could respond with.

The heat within was boiling his blood to crazy proportions.  Winston took sh lead and made his way to the entrance of the main lobby.  The doors slid open and Winston was greeted with the shimmering voice of ATHENA.

“Welcome home, Winston.  I take it the flight was smooth enough?”  Winston rose a hand, waving to the camera staring above and watching the trio make their way in.

“I can’t complain too much.  Things seem to be shaping up well enough here.  No ruckus I hope.”

“There was a minor altercation between Lena and the patient in the infirmary.  Fortunately it seems Doctor Ziegler managed to keep him in control at the cost of your ‘no alcohol’ request.”

Winston’s lip quivered; the first sign of an annoyed Ape.  “…So…the patient, Tavish.  He’s…drinking, now?  From Torbjorn’s cellar I assume?”

“Yes, that’s correct.  Would you like for me to replay the surveillance?”

“I…suppose so.”  It’s not as if Winston had a real choice right now.

 

_[REC]_

_Tavish was subdued in the most appropriate and nonviolent approach that even Angela wasn’t really expecting.  Here he was, barging into a storage cabinet filled with peanut butter and bananas and ruining what was Winston’s private backstock with the woman that was supposed to be capturing him.  It didn’t make a lot of sense; it was almost as if the idiocy that radiated off of DeGroot was contagious._

_But Angela didn’t really make that much of a fuss about it.  No cages, no bindings.  Her main objective was successful and her patient was in a considerate amount of care.  More or less.  Tavish still had the issue of the lack of Alcohol in his system that he so eloquently explained to Lena and Angela._

_“Giv’ the juice an’ I’ll leave ya alone.” He tried to choke out through the stuffed mouth of spread and potassium._

_“Why booze?  Don’t tell me the stories about you types are true?”  Lena questioned, also stuffed to the brim with bananas._

_Angela spoke up to explain: “In his reports it appears that the alcohol in system has grossly altered his body to the point where his circulatory, nervous, AND digestive system has a demand of alcoholic content to keep his body as active as a …healthy, alcohol-free human.  Wherever this man is from – certainly NOT the Scotland we know – the push of liquor has changed him into what we, in the medical field called, an accidental miracle.”_

_“Oi, they really call it that?” Lena questioned._

_Angela shrugged.  “Probably.”_

_“OIOI, LESS YABBIN’ AN MORE OF THE STUFF, DOC.”  Tavish so rudely demanded, causing the Doctor to rise from her sitting position.  She was annoyed sure, but she followed his orders in hopes that getting him inebriated would quell his temper enough to work with.  She needed to run more tests.  Though vague, the reports she has so far on the man are so drastically different from the average male._

_“I believe Torbjorn has a reserve he hid from us once Winston and Jack demanded we keep Alcohol out of the watchpoint.  One second.  Lena, clean this mess up and make SURE that Tavish stays under control.”_

_“An wot about m’Eyelander?”  The Demoman spoke up._

_“As SOON as you’re in a better state along with a better set a clothing, Lena shall escort you to India where you will retrieve your swor-- …your Eyelander.  You have my word.”  Those were Angela’s final words before she set off to intrude into Torbjorn’s private space._

_Tavish was relived.  He was getting some real cooperation out of these two and at the same time, they didn’t seem to be that bad of people.  Do-gooders for sure, but they weren’t insane like his camp back in the badlands.  He wanted more answers – he was sure everyone needed an answer – but for now he had to remain contempt that his sword was somewhere safe._

_“This stick of yours that important, ‘eye?’”  Lena giggled at the lame pun she managed to get out of her system.  “Heirloom, yeah?”_

_Tavish wiped his mouth clean of the peanut butter sticking to his face. “Oh aye, aye.  M’mum gave it to me before I set off to work in the Badlands.  Never used it ‘til we got to a job back home in the Keep, but, since then I’ve stuck wit’ it.  Not like other swords, see, it’s—“_

_“I know, I know.”  She interrupted Tavish, moving her hand over to scrub the peanut butter glued to his scraggly beard.  “ ‘Magic.’ That stuff’s real where you’re from.”_

_“Yeh!  We got ‘bots, technology an’ woteva’ but thas’ all in Oceania.  Hard to explain’ – jus’ wait ‘till we’re on th’ plane.”  Tavish was getting upset, probably from the alcohol deprivat—_

\--

ATHENA’s recording was interrupted by a pop-up.  From Tracer, no less.  “It appears she left you a message before the three took another of the Helis to India.  Would you like for me to read it, Winston?”

This time, Zenyatta moved up to Winston having watched the footage alongside of Genji and the Ape. 

“His soul is clouded.”

Genji took notice to Winston’s figure after the recording interrupted.  His figure was slumped, eyes narrowed to the point of his brow beginning to crack his glasses.  Teeth bared but he was trying his hardest to keep his composure.  Sure, he could accept that Angela and Tracer probably took the initiative and assisted Tavish on his task to retrieve his sword.  He could potentially accept the new rush of information regarding ‘Magic’ and Oceania’s technological boom – which did NOT exist in the world that Winston and company currently inhabited.  With enough persuasion he could even accept the fact that Tavish’s medical state was grossly warped to be an overly dependent alcholoic.  All of this information super important to log and look over, but right now that mattered VERY LITTLE to the doctor.

Tavish DeGroot and Lena Oxton may have potentially devoured more than half of his inventory. 

So he was pissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went through seven drafts before finalizing this one.   
> First Draft: Deleted, lost to the void.  
> Second Draft: Finished, reread, hated it. Started over.  
> Third Draft: Accidentally submitted to a turnitin at my university, my instructor is now following this story. Scrapped for his sake (Enjoy Dr. Grundle)  
> Fourth: hated it  
> Fifth: My girlfriend didn't like the role Angela played in it. Seduction doesn't fit Angela.  
> Sixth: Can't just push in Bastion no matter how much I wanted to. Scrapped.
> 
> So finishes the first act of Mannmic Crisis. Lena and Tavish are already out and on the way to India. Are evil things happening on the side? Probably I don't fucking know lol
> 
> We won't see the 'BAD' guys for a while. We'll probably visit the Viaduct gang and Talon soon. 
> 
> I would like to have some beta readers to get some simple grammatical things shaped up as well as some collaborators to make this hit that good streak of silliness and seriousness. I want to give this 'color'. Life. Not just a drab event of fighting and dialogue. Sort of cartoony, if you will.
> 
> I'm glad you all stuck around. I thank you all for reading, and I hope I can continue entertaining you all with this silly ass story.
> 
> -Rodyn.


	6. Tavish DeGroot can't keep the date.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tavish recalls the past conversations he had with the Overwatch gang as they make their way to India. Reaper's there, just Reapin' it. McCree doesn't feel like he's getting the full story for everything. There is no Chili.

_Tempered by the fires of hell…_

_His fired will remains steadfast upon the passage that preys upon the weak._

_Unbreakable._

_Uncorruptable._

_Unyielding._

_None could stand before the horde of the Reaper._

_For he alone…_

“Reyes.”

_Was the hellwal—_

“ **Reyes**.”

The cloaked man in the mask had looked up from his almost-ritualistic trance to raise a finger up against his ear.  The button against his ear was depressed in a loud ‘chime’, the communicator signaling into activity.

“I told you before: It’s Reaper.”

“We at Talon prefer to have a personal relationship with our mercenaries.  A…first name basis, if you will.”  This voice was young.  Feminine.  Almost sultry in her vocal delivery.

“…Just give me the job, Widowmaker.” The masked man identified as Reaper wasn’t really fond of holding a conversation with the woman on the other end of the communicator.  Along with the emotional baggage that came with her past, ‘Widowmaker’ was an overly passive-aggressive crow of an assassin. 

Though Widowmaker absolutely adored pulling this ‘child’ out of his own, pathetic little world.

“The hidden receiver you had left in Gibraltar when the ape activated the Recall is still active.  R&D has been monitoring the technology there extensively to replicate what Winston and Dr. Ziegler have been producing.”

“So /why/ am I involved?”  Reaper wasn’t as tech savvy as he’d like to be.  He felt that Widowmaker was patronizing him about that.

“Over the recent days, there has been a surge in activity far beyond the tech capacity that Winston is capable of.  The recordings we hear discuss something regarding a ‘Viaduct’ and ‘Mann Co.’  The latter through extensive searches has granted us the discovery of a failed Australian mining company.”

“…And?”  Widowmaker clicked her tongue.  Reaper really was disinterested in this.  Asshole.

“Talon has given us -- /you/, I have an arrangement scheduled to meet with [STATIC] – the task of ensuring that the research team there does not step foot in Australia.” He could tell there was confusion in her voice, as if she didn’t know the whole story.  Not to mention: Australia is a wasteland, ridden with uneducated Junkers and gross radiation spikes across the outback.  Even Sydney is barely livable there.

“…The watchdog routine is exactly why I prefer working alone…”  This time, Reaper didn’t get a response back from Widowmaker.  She must’ve cut off early to deal with the outside arrangement.  (Most likely to satisfy that insane bloodlust she loves to hold in.)  Ultimately he was faced with a new task; to go back to Gibraltar and see what’s exactly going on there.  How many people had Winston recruited since the recall?  With the public opinion of Overwatch these days, it wouldn’t be surprising to see him get the bottom of the barrel when it comes to recruits.

The bottom of the barrel was kind of like McCree.  Dear god; an endless hobble of McCree likes. 

“Disgusting…”

\--

From his patrol post in Satya Vaswani’s R&D building Jesse McCree let out quite a nasty rip of a sneeze into his poncho.  The sneeze was strong enough for the sword behind the glass safe to catch wind of, it’s blade vibrating beneath the holster it was in.

What was this thing McCree was hired to guard?  He vaguely recalled Symmetra referring to the sword as ‘Eye’ something.  What was so damn special about it?  Now he wasn’t much of those bushido types like his old acquaintance Genji was, however he well understood the bond between a man and his weapon. The thought of McCree getting his trusty six-shooter stolen would drive the man on fire quicker than his five alarm chili recipe.  Never get between a man and his gun.

(Or his sword.)

(and his chili)

“Just a few hours before I can get that chili…” See, one of the better things about living in India is the variety of markets that sold spices and meats.  Cooking was more or less of a hobby to Jesse that he used to pass the time, even back in his Overwatch days.  It also helped at a motivation tool to get better at a genuine trade other than shooting a gun, as the rest of the prior Overwatch generation had some…questionable cooking techniques.

But the Cooking was half of the excitement.  Exploring the vast, undercity bazaars of India was a journey in itself.  Learning of the culture, the difference in the bourgeois and the lower class and their feelings between the other, stepping out of the nigh-oppressive atmosphere feigned as ‘order’ to get a little foot dip of ‘chaos’ now and then.  Makes a fella wonder why he hadn’t taken more jobs with Reyes here before.

Guarding the sword, sadly, wasn’t as fun as it led up to be.  The sword was nothing but unique, reacting and shifting to some of McCree’s mannerisms as if it were trying to say something but it was the only shining light in a session of bleak monotony.  Symmetra would come, give his directions, leave and never return until it was time to close the building up for the night.  Her employees stayed far away from the ‘exotic American’ as a request from their boss so that McCree could ‘focus’ on the job.  Little that she knew that the monotony was giving him ridiculous headaches.

“Shoot… maybe I can get a nap in…”  It wouldn’t be the first time Jesse was caught napping on the job, and the worst Satya could do to him is a scolding.  He’d just have to hide somewhere a lot more discrete.

Those boxes on the rafters look good enough…

\--

How did Tavish DeGroot end up loading his ass on one of the helis with Tracer and Mercy anyway?  With a fancy looking polo shirt and a clean trimmed beard, no less?

Well shortly after the exposure of Tavish and Lena chowing down on some finely-crafted peanut butter and the fallout that would come with Winston’s primal rage after seeing his stash being taken from him, the Demoman finally got to explain who he was, what did he hail from, and generally what is it that a Demoman actually ‘does.’

Tavish DeGroot was a Demolitions expert – most likely one of the greatest to hail from the Highlands, much like his old man was before him and his old man before him.  For the past 10 years or so he, along with another ensemble of eight highly dangerous (half of which were idiotic) mercenaries have been fighting an endless struggle of land and resource control under the supposed employ of Redmond Mann, the now deceased Mann Co. co-founder and secret hoarder of Australium.  However now, with the Mann brothers now long dead and gone he still continues that same fight, though under the employ of ‘The Administrator.’

 

Someone he hasn’t met himself, but if he were to believe Miss Pauling’s words – he didn’t see why not – she was someone to be greatly trusted and /never/ crossed, should he wish to continue getting paid.

\--

_“Pause.”  The cyborg-ninja Genji politely interrupted the Scot in his conversation. “You…take employ under a force that you have no recollection of?  No prior information at all?”_

_“Aye.”_

_Genji was a bit flustered by Tavish’s honesty. “And…you see nothing wrong with that?”_

_Tavish almost instantly replied with; “Keeps mum happy.  Keeps m’hobby going.”_

_It was still really foreign to the swordsman but at the same time, it was still very relieving to hear that the Tele-walking Demoman had some sense of honor to him.  Maybe his sword claims were valid.  Maybe there was this valiant, noble hero behind the smell of Scrumpy and cheap men's cologne. (Granted that was Jack's cologne he was using but nonetheless it fitted Tavish to the needle when he sported it._

\--

Sadly there’s no interest in DeGroot’s hobby at the moment.  Instead the Overwatch team were more interested in his fantastical tales of incredible magic, exciting weaponry and massive battles across a variety of warfields around the world.  The stories regarding the invading robot duplicates under the control of Grey Mann, the secret third brother between the two Mann siblings and how he and the RED team had to defend their Viaduct sparked memories of the last Omnic Crisis for Dr. Ziegler and Dr. Winston.

\--

_Tavish couldn’t gauge a genuine expression from the floating robot behind Genji.  His mum raised him right, and he was always sure to apologize in the case of him potentially offending someone. (Except if it were one of those ‘backstabbing Brits’ that his mum and pop went on about.)_

_“Y’know, mate if y’want me to stop talkin--“  Tavish was interrupted with the raise of the robot’s hand._

_“On the contrary.  Like this world, it would not be surprising to hear some of my brothers straying from the Iris.” He responded in an artificially gentle tone. The tension of the environment seemed to dissipate with relaxed shoulders and sighs the group – even Winston who had managed to regain some of his own composure._

_"I am quite sure the Omnics in your Badlands are quite the opposite from the ones here.  There's even a chance the Omnium is virtually nonexistent there."_

_Tavish was still dumbstruck on how the robot was flying._

_"Had to do something with the other mineral you mentioned, yes?  Australium?"  Winston asked as a means to get his attention back._

_"Hm...dunnae, but, wouldn't surprise me.  That Australium, mate; whew!  Bloody black magic it is."_

\--

When that was all that he could muster to tell the group, Tavish sat and listened to the backstory of ‘Overwatch.’  Unfortunately hearing it from the giant Ape meant that Tavish couldn’t really focus on it, so instead he’d been phasing in and out of the discussion to briefly hear something about ‘heroes’ and ‘Omnic Crisis’ and ‘payloads.’

\--

_“PAYLOADS?!  HERE TOO!?”  That word struck a firm nerve in Tavish’s noggin. “None of me mates ever push the bloody cart…’s always me, but I’M TH’ ONE whos’s s’posed to DEFEND them?!”_

_Hearing that from Tavish brought back some old memories of Torbjorn’s rambling about payload offensives for Winston.  Maybe somethings never really changed no matter what the reality._

\--

In the end, he had gotten the gist; they were good people.  The fellas would prob’ly love ‘em, but thinking about the fellas now would probably just upset the Demoman more.  He would have more stories to share with the makeshift Overwatch team later, but for now this was the task for him to focus on; getting his sword back, and eventually finding his way back home to the Badlands. 

\--

_“Where did you say your Viaduct was located at again, Mr. DeGroot?” Doctor Ziegler asked as she loaded up a small suitcase with emergency medical supplies.  While the Demoman had his focus directed on lacing the nifty looking boots that he had borrowed from a locker long abandoned by some guy named ‘Jack Morrison’, he kept the conversation going nonetheless._

_“Teufort, New Mexico.  But ah…” Demoman sounded a bit sour, “Som’ things happened.”_

_Angela was going to reply but by the time she finished packing – a task both she started along with Tavish’s task around twenty minutes ago – she noticed that he was still stumped on how exactly to tie these shoes of his._

_“Teufort.  Must be a…small town.”  What also didn’t make sense about the location was the issue regarding how exactly did small warfare hide for so long under the history books when said warfare was RIGHT in the United States? What strings did those ‘Mann’ brothers that the Scot had slurred over pull to keep it so secret?  “If you’d like, we can take a look there after we’d reacquire your Eyelander.”_

_“Wot makes y’think they’ll be anything there, doctor?”  Nevermind Tavish’s hands getting chinese finger puzzled into the shoestrings now._

_“The path back home is well beyond our technological capabilities.  Light-manipulation is a key trait of traditional teleportation and, should we ruin our relationship with Vishkar after this engagement…we may need to think of alternative--“Angela stopped mid-sentence to cover her mouth as she giggled at the oaf of a man who couldn’t tie his shoes.  For a demolitions expert, he was quite the clumsy individual._

_“Pfft. Thought y’fellas HAD an engineer based ‘ere already?  Can’t be too hard if WE managed to nail it back home.”_

_As Angela got to a knee to assist in unwrangling Tavish’s shooes, she concluded her advisement with this: “There’s obviously a vast difference in technology between where you’re from, and what we have today.  Be it you arriving from an alternate past, or a vast future…the point is we at Overwatch will do what it takes by helping you.  Do you understand, Mr. DeGroot?”_

­­--

“Whatever it takes” was the phrase circling around Tavish’s mind during the flight to India.  What had to be done to get back home?  Were things a lot deeper than just a simple technical malfunction?  What were the gang doing back home to even find Tavish?  Did they even know he was gone?

….Probably Pauling knew, sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IS this filler? Could we call it Filler? Things are happening I guess. Background exposition.
> 
> This was supposed to go out on Sunday but my word doc files were incredibly bugged to the point of me having to do some rewriting. It's Wednesday now.
> 
> Iv'e got this rad flowchart about how this story's progression will go, and I'm super excited to keep on going with it unless I change my mood.
> 
> This will probably be the only time Torbjorn gets a mention at all in this story.


	7. Tavish DeGroot in: Vishkar Villany (1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An imrpov explosion within Vishkar Developments HQ leaves Tavish at the barrel of a familiar, Tanky figure. Symmetra's stumped by the Eyelander.

Futuristic India was just about what the Demoman had expected it to be.  That being said, he had never even been to India to his knowledge and his first assumption of the region was that the clothing had to have been worth his head several times over, and the body-to-body contact had to have been unbearable for most tourists.  Fortunately for the latter it seemed DeGroot and Lena were getting by rather well, wading through the crowds.  The Brit's natural celebrity tenure had clearly gotten them through the brunt of most commuting groups far easier than he had anticipated.  For better or worse.

By worse, that meant the Demoman had to deal with the baggage that came with being the celebrity side-piece; taking photos with eager fans, answering questions about his relationship with Tracer and the occassional question about his eye.  The Demoman's lack of depth perception was no help in taking photos and the usual angry response he threw about Lena was about as 'trite and true Scot' as he could possibly be.  

He should've stayed with the Doctor.  At least she was a pleasant individual to talk to.  Tavish and Lena...didn't get along.  Polar opposites from one another to the bone.  Lena courteous and friendly with anyone offering their attention to her, while Tavish grunts and curses away anyone who tried to get in his face.  All he wanted was to be done with this place, get his sword and get back home before mum began her 'worrying' phase.  Or worse; what if the team began to notice his disappearance?  What if Blutarch's forces began to knock at the Viaduct and - god forbid - take their prized briefcase full of juicy intelligence?  

He'd be fired!

With an exhale, Tavish put his hands above his head to try and hide himself from both Lena and the oncoming gawkers.  Vishkar's HQ according to Athena shouldn't have been too far off from now.  Business district should be a straight shot to their headquarters.  He could take care of himself.  Lena could take care of herself.  

"S'not like I need help from some fancy-prancy Londonite-tart." The Demoman muttered beneath his breath as he marched onwards.  "I'm a right, true EXPLORER of all things.  The last thing that could ever happen to a fella like me is gettin' LOST.  I am ALWAYS on Point.  ALWAYS on the ball.  ALWAY--"

In the midst of his slightly intoxicated rant, he seemed to have ignored the sudden rush of commotion that began to surround him.  Bustling streets turned to scrambling yells.  Disorder of the finest caliber.  On the left of the Demoman a grand explosion had managed to go off, destroying the large windows from the inside of the unidentified building.  Civilians rushing out with things in hand, unorthodox in their fear-fueled stampede.  More shots, drowning the screaming out in favor of even grander explosions.  Minutes would go to a full hour, and by the time Tavish had finally stopped to see what the hell was going on, the back of his head had began to grow comfortable along the opposite edge ...of a shotgun barrel.

\--

Jesse McCree slept on the job.  He has been sleeping for a good two hours.  Satya knew this because she had been observing him in the intermissions of her current study.  Usually she would shoo any slouching mercenary off the job and hurry herself to hire the next high-quality schmo to do a simple security routine, but with the strange developments of the past month Sayta was forced to let McCree continue to sleep on the job.  It wasn't everyday Vishkar was tasked with uncovering the innerworkings of a talking sword.  Nor was it an everyday occurence to see test after test on the unnamed sword emerge 'inconclusive.'

No DNA samples tracing to a history of owners.  Nothing unique about the metalworking and binding.  Nothing explainable about the strange kinectic energy it seemed to radiate.  The scabbard was normal.  The wear on the blade was present but the blade still remained razor sharp.  Sadly, Satya couldn't find a single explanation as to how the hell this thing was capable of speaking.  

Or how to get it to shut up.

Regardless, she had a job to do and she was no less determined to get the job done as she was yesterday.  Descending down the flight of stairs into the containment room where the Eyelander and McCree rested, Satya bringing a hard-light crafted monitor to her display to see had anything changed with the sword.  Right as she began her standard maintenance procedure, the screen of the monitor flashed red, a warning displayed across the screen that stated:

"ROBBERY IN PROGRESS WITHIN THE BUSINESS DISTRICT, PROCEEDING WITH LOCKDOWN."

The monitor unsuable during the lockdown session.  A practice Vishkar had made mandatory across all of their HQ products to prevent their secrets from leaking -- the usual process tripled in security protocols due to the recent LumeriCo leaks. Satya was, for lack of a better word, stuck in a containment room with a sword and a gun-man who managed to sleep through an alarm system.  

How long was this going to last?

\--

Danger called, and Tracer saves.  Saves as many as she could, guiding them out of the explosion radius.  Athena chiming into her communicator about the situation.

"Target(s?) unidentified.  Casualty number unidentified.  The first explosion managed to occur roughly twenty minutes ago.".

A relived sigh escaped the Speedster, managing her briefing with the AI well while she shuffled civilians out of the blast radius.  

"Can't be Talon, yeah?  The last thing those guys would want is a full frontal war with Vishkar.  Not even the UN can compete with their tech.  These have to be either...radicals, or two idiots."

"Let's hope it is the latter.". Athena added.  "Would you like to see if Tavish is safe?"

Tracer huffed.  Not like SHE would personally care for the well being of a bone-headed scot who would just walk away from her when she's taking the lead to Vishkar Developments HQ... curse her heroic nature.

"Fine.  Patch me in, Athena.". Tracer conceded with a click of her tongue.  "You better not be dead, you one-eyed maniac."

\--

No Grenade Launcher, no Sticky Launcher, no Sword -- just an explosive Caber, Tavish's trusty pocket Scrumpy and about a years' worth of fistfighting knowledge thanks some improv training with Misha.  Tavish was clearly outgunned and outbulked by the masked assailant with the shotgun pressed to his skull.  What a day to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.  

Tavish bit the tip of his thumb in thought.  Let's say if he WERE about to be killed: would he not be respawned at the Viaduct back in Teufort?  Initially his first thought was 'NO' but at the same time, he wouldn't really know if he wouldn't try.  What's stopping him from trying?  ...That thought quickly went away once he realised that if he were to die right here and now...that would be it.  No life.  No home.  No Teufort.  A risk he couldn't take right now.  

Thankfully that's only one in the grand playbook of risks that Tavish enjoyed taking.  The Demoman swivled on his feet to face himself in front of the gunman.  A portly, masked man brandishing a hook to compliment that strange shotgun in his opposite hand.  With the mask in mind the Demoman wasn't going to get a read at all in his facial expressions.  No faking out, the Demoman had to think quick...

He raised his hands and faced the bloated gunman eye to eyes.  Taking a deep breath before speaking up for himself.

"....thassa...thassa mighty fine uh...explosion y'got there, mate."

The gunman's head tilted.  A congested growl emitting from the mask before actually saying something.

"Yeah."

Demoman raised his brow.  Not much of a talker.  Maybe he just likes being talked up?

"...Yanno, 'm a...'m just gonna go an' get to me mum, yeah?"

"No."

Tavish nearly jumped out of his wee booties.  Right.  The ASKING strategy is a no-go.  What will the Demoman's next plea bargain be?

He spat on the ground, sloshing the excess saliva through his gums and teeth before uttering something else that's just as equally stupid as asking to leave.

"Y'mind if I...have this here last drink?  Before I go, I mean?". Reaching into the band of his trousers he brandished the bottle of Scrumpy to reveal to the gunman.  With no response at first, he attempted to raise the hook in one hand with the full intent to strike the Demoman down...Tavish closed his eye shut.  This was it.  This was the end, and he wasn't even going to get a chance to have the last taste of his favorite drink.  

Unbeknowst to him, a third party had approached Tavish and swiped the bottle clean from his hands.  He popped his eye open to get a look at who was the wily bastard with the audacity to take a swipe at his drink.

Wily bastard was definitely the right terminolgy to think of, he surmised.  This man surely did appear to be a wily bastard, with his grease-smattered shirtless torso and unkempt bottom attire.  Waddling about with a rusted peg-leg and good lord this man has a Grenade Launcher.

"OOH.  Scrumpy!  Hard pick to get these days since the war, eh?  Reckon this fella must be a collector...right.  Toss 'em off, Roadhog.  We can make a killin' with this here liquid gold!"

The gunman, 'Roadhog' sighed out.  Lowering his gun and stepping away from Tavish at the request of this scraggly fellow.  It was one thing to hold the Demoman at full gunpoint with the prospect of his life being taken away, without a respawn at that.  It was a completely different thing to blatantly rob a man from his hard-earned scrumpy SHORTLY before killing him.  He's not even dead yet!   These brats...these /novices/ with such reckless disregard of a TRUE veteran housewrecker...

Tavish was more angry than he was relieved that his life was spared.  Some criminals THESE were.  He'd show these two cretins just what he was capable of.  If it means breaking the damned bottle and ruining the spoils for both of the party, well, Tavish was a fair trader before he started being a fair fighter.

"YOU...OILY...NO GOOD!!"

The scraggly man with the bottle of freshly stolen Scrumpy in his hand whipped around with the Grenade Launcher pointed in retaliation.  Between himself, Roadhog and the Demoman, the three would be blinded by the point-blank Caber slammed into Roadhog's gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer HDD got corrupted. The second half of this is in HDD Hell. I'm sorry. Will update next week on Friday.

**Author's Note:**

> Manmic Crisis splits what I know of Overwatch after hours of play with the current lore seen in Team Fortress 2. What we get is an enjoyable, adventurous romp that consists of a Scot and a Brit who don't really like each other but the latter really wants to get the Scot back to where he's from.


End file.
